


there is a season

by pipistrelle



Series: there is a season [1]
Category: Circle of Magic - Fandom, Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Domestic, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 14:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1308916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipistrelle/pseuds/pipistrelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-series domestic fluff. Rosethorn is good at plants but bad at feelings. Luckily, Lark is patient.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there is a season

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking this takes place well before the Circle of Magic, before Discipline is even a thing, when Lark and Rosethorn are new initiates figuring out their relationship. Basically, I just can't get enough of Rosethorn being an awkward lovestruck dork and being annoyed about it.
> 
> Originally from the drabble prompt "feathers".

A warm breeze blew through the open windows of the little cottage, bringing with it the chime of the evening bells and the scents of cooking from Winding Circle’s kitchens. Rosethorn, intent on burning out the fungal infection from one of her rosary vines, ignored both the time and the suggestion of food.

Some time later, she heard the front door open and shut; she ignored that, too. If anyone wanted her, they could see that she was busy and turn right back around. Most of the visitors were for Lark, anyway. Lark should be home soon, she could take care of whatever they wanted...

Rosethorn was so absorbed in the woes of the vine under her hands that it took her nearly twenty minutes to realize something was wrong. At last she looked up to see Lark sitting across the table, her full lips pursed, her brow furrowed in anger as she yanked a threaded needle through her scrap of cloth with much more force than necessary.

It was such an unexpected sight that for a moment Rosethorn could only stare. _She_ was the one prone to temper and fits of sulking -- she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Lark scowl like that.

“What’s ruffled _your_ feathers?” she demanded, then realized that maybe that wasn’t the most sensitive way to start a conversation with someone who was visibly upset, and cursed her sharp tongue.

Lark only shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing if it upset you,” Rosethorn snapped. The rosary vine, feeling her rising distress, extended a feeler that crept across the table towards Lark’s sewing basket. “Is it Crane? Or that Water woman, what’s her name, Peony? I know she wanted you for the Water Temple and she’s been sore that you took your vows with us.”

The rosary vine, having surmounted the sewing basket, twined anxiously around Lark’s wrist. Lark looked up, startled, then smiled faintly, the tension easing out of her shoulders as she tickled a leaf. “I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t mean to worry you,” she murmured to the plant -- to the _plant_ , Rosethorn told herself sternly. And the shudders of contentment and delight at Lark’s touch were the _plant’s_ feelings. Because plants were sloppy, sentimental things, who would have no qualms about finding whoever had upset Lark and hanging that person by their heels in the well.

Rosethorn cleared her throat, determined not to blush. “I’m only asking because of the plants,” she announced. “They get upset when you’re angry. They think it has to do with them.”

Lark was grinning now, still carefully focusing on the rosary vine, which had put out more feelers to tangle playfully around her fingers. “Of course,” she said softly. “I’d hate to upset them. Please tell them that I got into a silly argument with Peony, but I’m perfectly all right, and I could never be angry with them. They’re far too lovely.”

Lark glanced up at Rosethorn, who suddenly felt uncomfortably transparent and soft. Her face burned, and she looked down so Lark wouldn’t see the moonstruck affection in her eyes. Mila blast it, how could this woman make her _feel_ so much?

“Stop that,” she scolded the vine, which had thrown out a joyful crop of pink and violet flowers. “It’s not the season for you to bloom. You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”

Lark snorted. Rosethorn glared at her, daring her to laugh. Instead Lark shook her head and set her sewing on the table, leaning over so her free hand rested on Rosethorn’s. “Why don’t you go calm the plants down?” she suggested. “I’ll get supper ready. Once we’ve eaten I’ll tell you all about the mess the Water dedicates have made of their Midsummer preparations.”

“Fine.” Rosethorn tugged sharply on the vine, which coiled back onto its trellis, leaving its new flowers behind on the table with an almost audible sigh of regret. As she carried it back into her workshop, Rosethorn scolded it at length on the importance of patience, and letting things bloom in their proper season so they would grow strong and true. It was a lecture Lark had heard many times, directed at everything from blades of grass to oak trees. She practically knew it by heart.

Everything in its proper season, she thought. She had shared the cottage with Rosethorn for nearly three moons now, watching as the other woman struggled to come to grips with this thing between them. Lark wasn’t sure that Rosethorn had ever been in love before, or that she knew that this _was_ love, on Lark’s side anyway.

What Lark did know was that every day they spent together was a day they grew into each other, strong and true. And if Rosethorn wasn’t comfortable yet with what that meant -- well, she could wait.

Lark dallied at the table, putting away her sewing things, listening for any returning footsteps. When she was absolutely sure that Rosethorn was entranced by some project in her workroom, she tucked one of the discarded violet blooms behind her ear and stood to start supper.

 


End file.
